In Vino Veritas
by mous1elousi3
Summary: "In wine there is truth."


_**A/N: Whelp…this did not go where I thought it would. I'm reliving undergrad Intro to Poetry here. And now I'm done, seriously, no more.**_

 _ **Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.**_

" **In Vino Veritas"**

They had kissed once. It was a brief, drunken thing, borne of rum and adrenaline…at least on her part. He had long become intoxicated by _her_ , and so took his fill in the moment, brief though it was and he knew it would be, committing to memory the feel of her lips and the taste of her. Even now he could not remember a wine so sweet, a burn more pleasant or a hangover so unrelenting. It was not enough.

Across the room from him in the Archives, Abbie swatted at some insect that landed on her arm. Ichabod recited at once, "Mark but this flea, and mark in this, how little that which thou deniest me is."

"What?" Abbie asked, looking over at him, her brow furrowed.

He let a smile form on his lips and replied, "Nothing."

She did not look convinced, but clearly having not caught the reference, went back to her reading without a word. Ichabod was immediately struck with an idea. He wondered how much he could say to her without her realising it. She plainly refused to discuss the kiss or acknowledge the sincerity of his ardour. How much he wished to do it again, so bad that he shook like an old drunk and was forced to slip his hands into his pockets to prevent her from noticing. He took a breath, released it and said,

"Had we but world enough and time,

This coyness, lady, were no crime.

But at my back I always hear

Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near…."

"Crane?" she said without looking up at him.

He swallowed a smile before replying, "Yes, Leftenant?"

"Is there something that you're trying to tell me?" she asked.

Oh she had no idea, and what a tragedy that was. What were the educators of today teaching their young charges that they could not at a line recognise the metaphysical poets? But then, this would not be working so well if she knew exactly what he was saying…and then again, maybe it would. Certainly it would have charmed a lady of his day. It had definitely worked on Katrina— _bad_ reference, but still. He replied, "No, I apologise Leftenant. It's just something that came to mind that I could not prevent myself from saying."

This time she looked up, though she kept the hand at her forehead where it was, and asked, "What is it?"

Very secure in the knowledge that she would not recognise them, he said, "Old poems. Nothing of importance."

"Oh," she said. "Okay." And then she bent her head back to her reading.

Ichabod's smile widened. He had already given her Donne and Marvell, and they were arguably the more famous. The next that came to his mind was a little audacious, but still, he lowered his voice a little, and turning to his book as if reading from the pages, said,

"I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,

Or all the riches that the East doth hold.

My love is such that rivers cannot quench,

Nor ought but love from thee, give recompense."

He saw her blink and her brow furrow, having peeked at her in his peripheral vision. It was a little obvious but as long as he pretended not to mean anything by it, she would leave him be. He knew his little ruse had worked when she did not look up. Still, Broadstreet, an American for once, was perhaps too plain. He took a moment to consider carefully his next selection before reciting,

"Being your slave, what should I do but tend

Upon the hours and times of your desire?

I have no precious time at all to spend,

Nor services to do, till you require."

She turned the page of the book she was reading and directed her eyes to the top. He imagined that she thought it was all gibberish. He lamented though that she could not recognise Shakespearean sonnets. He knew them all by heart, had learned them almost before he had finished the Holy Book, and yet it did not appear to move her an inch. And to her like this he meant every word. He said then,

"If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,

When other petty griefs have done their spite

But in the onset come; so shall I taste

At first the very worst of fortune's might…."

She took a breath and released it. Her eyes had not moved from their position at the top of the page, he noticed. He had her attention, even if she pretended that he did not. He said, "All days are nights till I see thee, and nights bright days when dreams do show me thee."

She took another breath and said, "Crane?"

He replied at once, "Yes, Leftenant?"

She lifted her eyes to his and asked, "Are you finished?"

He pretended to think about it for a few seconds. Had she figured him out? Should he go for something obscure, Middle English perhaps, which he knew her not to speak, and when she enquired, claim that it was something in his book?

" _Ich have loved al this yer_

 _That Y may love na more;_

 _Ich have siked moni syk,_

 _Lemmon, for thin ore."_

He studied the expression on her face, the pursed lips, the slightly narrowed eyes, and then, holding her gaze, said,

"Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships,

And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?

Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.

Come Helen, come, give me my soul again.

Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips—"

"—that's rather forward of you," said Abbie, cutting him off. She sat back away from her desk and folded her arms across her chest. She did not smile.

He straightened in his seat as well. She looked up to the heavens in an appeal for strength and said, "I have to admit, you had me confused until you got to Shakespeare. _Everyone_ knows Shakespeare. I had a boyfriend once who wanted to be on Broadway and thought the way to do it was to learn all of the plays and sonnets."

"Ah," said Ichabod, cheeks red.

She rolled her eyes, shook her head, breathed out a laugh and asked, "Is this how you guys used to do it back in the day? Ply a woman with poetry? I thought that was just TV."

She did not sound too upset. Ichabod replied, "It was one way and not without merit as poetry was highly regarded as a form of expression."

"Okay," she said, nodding at this. "Now what made you think it would work on me?"

He shrugged, hands squeezed into fists in his pocket, and asked, "Did it work?"

She stared at him for a time in silence before replying, "Nope, we're not doing this. We can't." And then she turned her eyes down to her book.

Ichabod thought about for a second and decided, yes, she really had just dismissed him and yes, he was angry about it. The anger spread through his chest with a heat not too dissimilar from that of his beloved Best Barbadian. He took a steadying breath, pulled his hands out of his pocket to flick his coat back and then leant forward to prop his elbows unto his knees, steeple his fingers under his chin and said, "No, Miss Mills, we are not going to pretend it did not happen any longer. I certainly will—"

"I said, no," she snapped, looking up at him. Then she slammed her book shut, inhaled, casting her gaze heavenward again, exhaled, and said, "I'm not doing this with you. I'm not. I can't. We have very important work to do that needs our full attention. Evil is not going to take a break while we're having an argument over what colour we should paint the living room. Right now we are the first and only line of defence for the whole world and we are not going to jeopardise that over something that happened because you were drunk and grieving."

He sucked in a breath, shocked, and then surged out of his seat. She blinked, startled by his action, and he said, "No, I'm not going to let you do this. You are not going to push me aside like you have done everyone else when their affections discomfort and inconvenience you."

"Excuse me?" she asked, standing as well. Now he had gone and offended her but he had not lied.

He marched across the floor to her, hands clasped behind his back if only to stop himself from reaching for her and said, "You heard me clearly, I will not repeat myself. I am not going to let you decide on your own what is best for the two of us. Even if I was willing to concede that I was drunk, what was your excuse? You certainly made no attempt to stop me."

She pursed her mouth and narrowed her eyes. Her fury made sparks of the gold flecks the light reflected in her eyes. She practically snarled at him, "Come again?"

Ichabod shook his head, smiling in spite of his fury, despite the way his words enraged her. He said, "No, no, Leftenant, you understood me. You simply do not want to hear what I am saying. I was of sound mind and judgement and I regret nothing and don't think I ever will. No, I am insulted that you would try to dismiss this so easily. It infuriates me that you think that I am such a simpleton that I would let my feelings for you get in the way of my duty. Are you saying then that you would let the world burn because we had an argument over paint?"

She stepped closer, so close that he could feel her body heat as she tilted her head back to look him in the face as she snapped, "No, but tell me that if we had to choose between the world and each other that you would not try to save me, and to hell with the world."

His eyes widened, and then his smile became a true one as his anger evaporated. She blinked, confused, and he barked out a laugh that made her take a step back. He stepped forward immediately to cage her in, determined not to let her escape now that he knew for sure that he had her. She folded her arms and glared at him, defiant, clearly unaware of what he had interpreted from her statement, and he said, his voice soft and smooth, "No. I would not let the world burn because you would never forgive me and we would have nothing and no one to share it with."

She rolled her eyes again and looked away from him, but he could sense that her anger had deflated too. It was all so much false bravado anyway. He smiled wider and lifted a hand to her face to trace a finger along her jaw to her chin. She refused to turn her head back so he bent to her and said almost directly to her ear, his lips mere inches from her cheek,

"Tis true, then learn how false, fears be:

Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,

Will waste, as this flea's death took from thee."


End file.
